


Foremost the Pack

by queefqueen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Jon Snow knows nothing, too many spoilers spoil the surprise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-05 23:38:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11023983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queefqueen/pseuds/queefqueen
Summary: A "Jon leaves the Wall before taking vows" fic. He thus embarks on a blood soaked and gore-dripping path of self discovery where he finds love - and stuff :).





	1. XI-XII.298AC

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tamarama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamarama/gifts), [Joan_of_Arc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joan_of_Arc/gifts).



> I wish to thank my wonderful beta Tamarama (on whom I shamelessly cheat by making last-minute edits, so only I am to be blamed for the text's quality) and joan_of_arc who nudged me to finally put my ideas to paper.
> 
> Author's wank ... er ... info dump:  
> 1 – Character ages - everybody born after 280 AC is two years older (unless it suits me otherwise). Robb and Jon were born in 281 and not 283, Gendry and Daenerys were born in 282 and not 284, Sansa hails from 284 AC, etc.  
> 2 – The timeline and events follows the books.  
> 3 – There will be moments where the fic will be gruesome and there will be lots of major character death in it.  
> 4 – Jon looks like the French actor Fernandel in his youth.  
> 5 – The pacing sucks. I'm an average writer at best.  
> 6 - Caveat lector! That is Latin for "reader beware" :D

Castle Black, XIth Month of 298AC.

"Lord Commander, may I postpone the taking of vows for a few days? I wish to hear news of the South, news of my. . ." - Jon asked.

"Yes."

A few days later, after the incident with the Wights, another conversation:

"I'm sad to see you go. The real fight is here, not the throne and prestige grabbing in the South. You would had been a boon for the Watch. I can only hope that you will be able to impress upon your brother that the Dead are Restless."

Jon shuddered at the memory of the Wights and nodded. Still, the words of Robb's letter, "I need you," called to him more than the Brotherhood of partly-reformed criminals. He left Castle Black with a sword and two letters from the Old Bear. He knew the contents of one - it stated that he was not a deserter from the Watch.

Riding south Jon pondered all that he learned during his several months at the Wall. Chiefly, field craft useful in scouting, as well as how to get along with people without pulling the "son of the lord, even if illegitimate" card. Meeting people absolutely unimpressed with whoever had been behind the Snow part of his name surely had been a painful eye opener. It was very educational. And he had gained a slightly different view of the North as a whole – for instance Winterfell was snubbed by many Northmen as being "tainted by Southron wiles" due to the presence of Lady Catelyn and the Sept his father had ordered raised for her. Speaking of the Lady Catelyn, he had gained a new perspective on her, too….

His mind went back to a certain event several weeks before. Finding other noble bastards among the six hundred society's rejects at Castle Black was not much of a problem. One restday Jon sat down with almost a dozen other proud bearers of names such as Snow, Pyke, Stone, Rivers, Flowers, or Storm. The get-together inevitably led to a pissing contest for "the most shitty childhood evah!"

Jon was halfway into his second sentence which detailed the _horrid_ circumstances of his upbringing at Winterfell when he was laughed off the table by the others. He almost got up to leave with a huff and swirl of his cloak, taking insult over accusations that being _sent to bed with no lemon cake_ having been the harshest punishment he had suffered. The laughter really HURT! - but his pride and interest in the others' life stories made him stay.

He was never to forget this exchange of stories. It slowly dawned on him - slowly as he was very reluctant to accept – and he truly accepted this only a few days later, after going over what he heard several times in his mind – that amongst those present he was the BEST cared-for bastard north of Dorne. Only one Walder Rivers – a Frey by-blow sent to the Wall after being caught in bed with a cousin – a married cousin, as otherwise nobody would had cared that much about it - had a childhood comparable to that which Jon had experienced; growing up with his relatives, given an education, never wanting for food or clothing. Even if short on lemon cakes or silks their lives – Jon's and Walder's - had been way and above those of the others.

The pissing contest was interrupted—and ended—by a Black Brother pounding his fist on the neighbouring table and yelling at them. "Listen you bunch of lordling fuckers," the grizzled veteran of the Watch - with a Southron and evidently low-class accent - snarled at the bastards. "I sucked on cocks to buy meself a bowl o'brown. If anybody of you silver-spoon-in-the-mouth fuckers dares to say 'luxury, we used to dream of a bowl o'brown,' I'll rip his tongue out through his arsehole."

The veteran continued in his contempt, "And then I grew out of being cute, me beard came in, me face and bum no longer soft and smooth. It was take the Black or starve." He spat out in disgust and the Black Brother stomped away – and was heard to mutter about "poxy, pampered, pouting princesses."

Another Black Brother who had been sitting with the grizzly veteran looked at the collection of bastards and added, "He modestly failed to mention that he was sentenced for killing a customer who wanted more than he had paid for." He chuckled, got up and gave them a broad wink. "One customer." The second veteran then left them to their own thoughts.

Jon still did not like Lady Catelyn. But he no longer despised her. And he loved his father even more.

Some time later, Jon straggled into Winterfell. In his haste, he had almost killed his horse, and had to walk it the last six miles, the horse stumbling along. He then fell asleep on the porch stairs. Jon woke up in a bed however, to a bursting bladder and a warm, lithe and small body next to his. The body did not smell like a girl, no icky flowery scents, but more of wet dog perfume. He guessed that it had to be Rickon. He extricated himself from under the covers taking care not to awaken the boy but failed.

"No go ..." the boy murmured.

"I must pee," Jon hissed.

"Potty?" the boy mumbled, a bit more coherently. "Me too."

The two peed into the well-stoked fireplace glowing brightly with red hot embers.

"Shake it off," Jon reminded Rickon.

"I know, I know," the younger Stark pouted. "Or it go stinky and fall off and no more peepee." The elder boy smiled – educational methods at Winterfell had not changed – Jon had been given exactly the same message at that age. Rickon wiped his fingers on his nightshirt while Jon did so on his bum-fluff covered backside.

After sleeping for the better part of two days Jon left on a fresh horse, bound for Robb and the Northern Host. At departure he had hugged Bran and - to the delight of "the Stark in Winterfell" – ruffled his hair. Jon then had to pry off Rickon, who bawled "No go! No go! I good! I be good!" as he pressed his tear-streaked face into Jon's chest.

He explained – or tried to explain – to the distraught child that he HAD to leave. That he had to go "for papa", for Sansa, for Arya, for Robb. That her going so that he could bring the back.

Rickon asked hopefully –"For Mama too?"

Jon swallowed and forced himself to say it:

"For Mama too."

Jon caught up with the North's army camped outside the Twins, on New Year's Day, to the expectedly warm reunion with Robb and unsurprisingly frosty with Lady Catelyn.

Once the Lady Catelyn came back from the Twins and laid out the arrangements with Lord Walder Jon pleaded, "Robb. Lady Catelyn. Please. Please don't do that to Arya. She will hate it there. It is a cesspit of backstabbing and plotting to move up in the pecking order. And she will be bred to death! She'll be made pregnant fifteen times before she's thirty!"

He wished to believe that there were good marriage prospects for his sister amongst the Freys. However, Walder Rivers' tales had given him an insight of life at the Twins – including a dim view of the men folk there. Male Frey's took their cue from the family patriarch - "get'em young and breed'em. And then get a new one, barely flowered if you can. They last longer that way." He pressed his case in spite of the Lady's hard glare and lips drawn into a thin line. Jon pleaded and begged for Arya's hand not being promised.

At Robb's snapped question: "What do you suggest we offer instead?" Jon said, "Would they take a bastard? Me? The Freys have lots of unwed girls... trueborn or otherwise..." He was immediately interrupted by Lady Stark accusing him of trying to jump up in life under the pretext of love for his sister, of Jon being a scheming bastard ever-plotting to steal from his trueborn kin, of trying the cheat his sister out of a marriage to a lordly house, of trying to wheedle his way into a marriage above his station ...

At this point Robb shooed him out of the tent – Jon could still hear the row between the acting Lord in the North and Lady Tully Stark some several tent rows away.

After leaving Robb and his mother to their spat Jon went to his tent and then sought out the tent flying the "Bear Rampant" banner – he had an errand there. After being brought before the She-Bear he knelt and presented her with a sword in his outstretched arms. Her eyes went wide.

"He .. he is alive, the Old Grouch, is he?" she said as she took the weapon into her hands.

Jon gave her a letter. Lady Maege sent a man to summon her daughters, had Jon take a seat and sat down herself to read the missive.

"So, I have you to thank for still having a living sibling ..." – she looked up from the parchment.

"I did nothing that any other man in my place would not have done, my lady ..."

"Still, it was not some "any other man" but you who saved my brother. You have the gratitude of House Mormont." She nodded her head at him.

"You called us, mother?" – came from the entrance as three young women trudged in, led by the tallest, Dacey.

"This wolf pup saved Old Bear and brought you a sword, Dacey. Your uncle feels he is getting long in the tooth and did not wish Longclaw be lost with him somewhere beyond the Wall".

Maege left out how the Old Bear waxed lyrical about the boy. That he had even considered leaving Longclaw to him! And that only Jon's turnabout over joining the Night's Watch had swayed the Old Bear's hand to pass the sword back to his family. The She-Bear snorted to herself - of course that it should had stayed with the family! The old boy evidently was going soft in the head - what was he now? Seventy? Gaga!

Jorelle and Lyra thanked Jon for saving their uncle and questioned him about the event. Not used to the attention of pretty high born girls Jon blushed and stuttered. This made the two tall young women, both taller than Jon and not much older, gently tease him even more. Dacey was out of the conversation, examining the sword in awestruck admiration. Jeor "Old Bear" Mormont had left Bear Island to take the Black before Robert's rebellion, when she had been just a little girl and thus she had no memory of the family heirloom.

Maege chuckled both at Jon's discomfiture and at Dacey's focus on Longclaw.

"She'll do the sword more justice than I'd do, with her spidery arms and fancy training. I prefer the mace myself – no need to remember to hit them with the cutty edge – you just hit'em and smashe'em and hear their bones crunch" – the she-bear chuckled. She then turned serious again:

"And what is this about the Restless Dead?"

.

And so the year 298AC ended.


	2. 1.I.299AC

 The next day Jon rode into the Twins alongside the Lady Catelyn to get to pick his bride. 

 “Go get the girls! But don’t bother with the pretty ones – he’s just a bastard,” the old, yet still virile Lord Walder rasped out.  “And you can trot out the Rivers too,” Lord Walder added as an afterthought.

 After examining the lineup of not very attractive Frey or half-Frey maidens Jon decided to go with the fat one. His experience with people was that fatsos tended to be jolly. Or at the very least, too lazy to be vicious. It was the skinny ones who tended to be vicious and dangerously “proactive”— a term he had learned from a Maester some time back. Must be the lack of sustenance, the simple boy from the North thought – “hungry means angry”. Hence in Jon’s eyes the fat blonde one was the safer bet for a sufferable marriage. He could only hope he was making the right choice....

 Neither had expected to marry. After all it was not much longer than a month previously that Jon had been poised to take lifelong vows of chastity. As to Walda – she was growing into acceptance of the fact that she would be left on the shelf. Or at best dumped on a hedge knight like her sister had been. Not only was she fatter than was fashionable - and thus less likely to catch the eye of a lord’s son - but she also had a whore for a sister and was thus tainted by association, as she could be suspected of being similarly-inclined. Hence the marriage business was at the same time wondrous yet terrifying for them both.

 As she was preparing her daughter for the rushed wedding Lady Mariya sat down behind her and began to brush Walda’s hair. She cleared her throat.

 “As you will be wedded and bedded today ...”

 “Amarei already explained everything to me, mother!” – the bride blurted out.

 This made the older woman draw her lips into a thin line. She commented icily:

 “Oh, did she ...”

 Walda nodded, slightly red faced.

 “But I’m still scared ...”

 Mariya kept on brushing but used her free hand to rub her child’s broad back, with visible bulges above her breast bindings.

 “Don’t worry, child. He is no way as dishy as his brother is but he seems to be a good man. I’ve spoken to him ( _Lady Mariya did not add – “seeing how useless your father is”_ ) and he made a good impression me. Homely and not even  as handsome as his father had been at his age _(Not to mention that Eddard Stark was nothing special to look at to begin with. His brother Brandom – now, that was a man the sight of which got a girl’s juices flowing!_ ), and doubtlessly not the sharpest sword in the Seven Kingdoms - he barely squeaked out a word when we spoke, yet he gave me strong hopes for a good heart and treating you kindly.”

 Walda wondered whether her mother truly felt this way or was just trying to make her feel better and less afraid about her full entry into womanhood - maybe she was just reassuring herself too. Sourpuss horse-like mug or not, greaseball or not, the Northern bastard was about her age and had all his teeth. She could work on his grooming and washing habits, though. Strands of dirty curls were so like totally uncool!

 During his week-long honeymoon at the Twins Walda cued Jon on her family, starting with her misfortunate father, Merret, son of Lord Frey by Amarei Crakehall – his third wife.  Merret had been brained with a flail in a skirmish while a squire, which loosed some screws in his head. This had prevented him from ever being knighted, made him a laughingstock of the Twins, made him suffer treatment close to a jester, and finally had led Merret to drink - to the despair of Walda’s mother, Mariya Darry. Her mother’s House was one of those which had suffered from Robert’s Rebellion the most – it had lost almost all its men folk and a sizeable portion of its lands for its support of the Targaryen cause against its liege Lords the Tully’s. It had been spared the ignominy imposed on House Carrington though – it had not been relegated from Lord to Landed Knight status.

 Initially Jon was quite wary of his goodmother – her speech and mannerisms had an unadulterated “Lady Catelyn” quality to them. Which, after all, was quite natural if one came to think about it – the Lady Mariya was of House Darry, an ancient House of the Riverlands with history going back to the Andal conquest of the Trident. She was not surprisingly wary of him too – a goodson out of the blue, a Northman and bastard to boot. Lady Mariya nevertheless appeared to be giving him the benefit of the doubt, hoping that he will do right by her daughter. And bastard or not, he was a lord’s son and a confidant of the acting Lord of the North – which was a step up from the hedge knight her eldest daughter ended up with. Furthermore the Marriage Contract stipulated that Jon be legitimised at the nearest opportunity. Jon was himself surprised at how unimportant the prospect of legitimisation seemed today – what really mattered was getting his little sister Arya off the hook! Truly the Wall had changed his outlook.

 Jon also suspected that Lady Mariya’s far from stellar marriage might had made her less prideful and less considerate of a groom’s breeding and more of his character. Here Walda’s visible satisfaction with her marriage – albeit all of several days length – must had been in his favour. 

 Jon and Walda shared tales of their siblings. Walda – the second eldest of four siblings – had a sister on either side plus a brother, Walder, the youngest of them all. Jon was surprised that his wife was not exactly overjoyed by the fact that her brother – nicknamed Little Walder - was one of the two Frey boys chosen to be fostered at Winterfell. He was soon to discover why.

 Jon deemed Walda’s siblings to be a mixed bag, albeit sadly biased towards the “bad”. To his disgust and revulsion Amerei - the elder of his two good-sisters – had tried to bed him. On the first day after the wedding too. He was not the only one to be “unhappy” with Amerei - in fact, once the Lady Mariya had learned of her eldest daughter’s advances she did justice to the Baratheon family words – “Our is the fury!” - and had locked the girl up in her room. However, she still had access to a window, so Amerei played the part of a damsel in distress from songs – specifically the songs build around the “maiden locked in a tower” theme – and promised her charms to all and sundry in return for her release. Taking up her offer a few men-servants quietly took the door of its hinges. Jon refused to think about what had followed – she WAS his good-sister!

 His goodbrother Walder ( _did they really have to give that name to every other boy?_ ) looked like a bully in the making, respectful – obsequious even - only towards those of higher standing or stronger than him. Jon did not like the Theonesque vibes the boy was giving off. However, as he was only ten years of age there was hope for him still, Jon thought. Only Marissa seemed to be “normal”, an ordinary girl like Sansa, Jeyne, the Cassel sisters ...

 After badgering the locals as to the lay of the woods around the castle, Jon rode out and explored the woods in the hills to the west of the castle. He found what he was looking for a few miles into the forest.  The next day, he took Walda there, accompanied by part of the Bastard Boys – as his assembly of squires had inevitably become known within an hour of the announcement of this part of the marriage agreement - and a few of her handmaidens. The handmaidens – all relations of some sort, naturally - were yet another element of the Marriage Contract, allowing the Lord Frey to unload a few of his female descendants upon the Starks.  

 In the wood Jon and Walda spoke their vows before a Weirwood – a proper Heart Tree, seeping sap from its eyes and mouth - as Jon had personally carved a grinning face into it the previous day. He also took care to keep the number of attendants small as Jon was growing weary of all sorts of “savage treehugger” japes.

 Once a sennight – or week as they preferred to say in the South – had passed Jon rode out to catch up with the North’s cavalry under Robb. That body of troops was marching to lift the siege at Riverrun. As a small group was much faster than an army Jon expected to rejoin his brother in four days. Riding out of the Twins Jon was accompanied by his Bastard Boys – a part of the arrangements made by the Lady Catelyn with the crafty Lord Walder – twelve men at arms. Could be called his “squires” just as well. All equipped at his expense, using funds from his wife’s dowry ( _miserly old sod!_ ), and all Frey bastards. Fortunately _only_ six were named Walders and needed nicknames as identification. The Rivers’ ages ran from twelve to almost thirty. And their blood relationship with the Lord Frey ranged from son to great-great-great-grandson.

 Under his left gauntlet Jon carried his wife’s favour wrapped around his forearm – Sansa would be delighted, he thought sadly, worried about his sister’s fate. The results of Walda’s baking exploits were overflowing his saddle bags. And warm feelings for her in his heart. And the memory of their ardent kisses on his lips. As he rode out Walda was on the ramparts – flanked by Ladies Mariya and Marissa, waving with one hand and dabbing at her eyes with a hanky with the other. 


	3. I - VII.299AC

1st through 6th Month of 299AC

Jon and his men joined Army Group West under the direct command of Robb “Young Wolf” Stark. Over the next six months of combat against Lannister forces in the western Riverlands and eastern Westerlands they acquitted themselves adequately if unexceptionally. However, Jon’s campaigning in the south came to an abrupt end after the Battle of Oxcross. Robb showed him a missive from the North. Jon was appalled at Lady Hornwood’s abduction and rape by the "Bolton Bastard." Robb said, “This Ramsey Snow has got way out of hand. It seems that Bran can’t handle him. Ride North in haste. You will be my Regent in the North and the Stark in Winterfell. Even if you still have not decided on what name to bear.”

In spite of their sombre feelings about the events up North the two young men grinned, going back to their conversation a few months ago after Robb, by then the King in the North, had legitimised his brother.

Robb asked, “What name for your House?”

“Stark?” suggested Jon.

“Mother will have kittens ...”

“Snowstark?”

Robb groaned at his brother’s lack of imagination....

“Whitewolf?”

Besides another groan this elicited a double facepalm.

“Greystark?” suggested Jon.

“No. Already taken. There was a cadet branch but it kept on revolting alongside the Red Kings of the Dreadfort until they were exterminated.”

“Blackstark?”

“Also ominous, the Blackfyres were the Targaryen-equivalent to the Greystarks.”

“Ghoststark?”

 Robb could not withhold a slight sneer, “And my baby brother will establish House Shaggystark ....”

 After examining and rejecting the alternatives, almost coming to blows over some of the suggested names while laughing like loons at others, they finally gave up and Robb penned LORD JON, with a “House name to be determined” provision into the blank space in the legitimisation document. Well, the Starks could be accused of many things, but fanciful was not one of them.

 “Now you can ride to your good-grandfather and show him that we are keeping to our bargain. Hopefully you will elicit some more troops from him. And have a nibble at your delicious little morsel, heh?” Here, Robb waggled his brows suggestively.

 Jon tried to give him the “Stark glare” but instead looked wistful, making his brother snigger.

 Robb asked his brother, “She still writing you every day?”

 Jon nodded, with a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Walda did not write him every day, although close to that. He wrote her back at least once a sennight too. Jon shared the happenings of the campaign while Walda gave out details of her life at the Twins. Jon read her letters out loud, omitting embarrassing, intimate passages such as “I cannot wait for the day when you share my bed again, my Lord!” to his Bastard Boys. Without their input on “who is who” at the Twins and their detective work in establishing EXACTLY which Walder or Walda his wife was writing about, he would be lost by the second sentence.

 

End of 6th month 299AC

At the Twins, Great Hall

“Well, well, what do we have here,” Lord Walder sneered. “A simple bastard barely half a year ago, and now,” Walder Frey’s voice grew doubly sneering, “ _Lord_ Jon, Lord _Regent_. What next? King in the North himself? Direwolf still good enough for you? Or are you a Dragonrider now? And, after dumping my dear daughter whaterverhernameis, boy toy to a Dragon Queen?”

 Jon kept his face a mask and his mouth shut, something he had lots of practice thanks to Lady Catelyn. He let the Old Goat laugh at his own japes.

 “Good that yet another of the terms of the Marriage Pact has been met. When will your brother finally win his war and come to marry one of my pretties, eh, bastard?” Lord Walder scoffed and waved him away.

 Once out of the Great Hall Jon was immediately beset upon by his wife who glomped him fiercely. He hugged and kissed Walda with equal fervour.

 After an exchange of ravens with Winterfell and White Harbour Jon rode north. To cut on travel time the party did not include a wheelhouse. Including all the servants his party had grown to over well over a hundred people. This included close to four score men at arms, half being House Frey and half House Stark swornswords. Plus Jon’s personal retinue of Bastard Boys – now down to eleven, what with the death of Horus Rivers at the Battle of Whispering Wood.

 

7th Month of 299AC

They skirted the swamps of the Neck and made towards a cove in the Bight where ships flying Manderly colours awaited them. Bypassing the Neck by sea saved them many days of travel and was much less tiring. After a feast at White Harbour – where Walda had impressed Lord Wyman with her appetite for eels and lampreys – they set out by barge up the White Knife and made uneventful progress until the vicinity of Castle Cerwyn. There they landed and began moving by land, Ghost showing his appreciation of this change by high tailing it into the woods. Jon was not worried when the wolf had not come “home” to the camp for the night – he somehow could sense that the beast was “out there”. Somewhere. For the death of him he could not say how did he know it, but he knew that Ghost was safe and happy. 

 Jon was happy as well. The sea air had made Walda and him amorous and just yesterday she had whispered that her “moonblood was late” and that she was pregnant! He was to become a father! He wished for a daughter. Blonde with grey eyes. Jon got teary eyed thinking forwards to the day when he would lead her towards a Heart Tree, where she would proclaim herself to be a woman grown and flowered, TRUEBORN and noble.

 That night Jon dreamt that he was running in the woods. Again. He had such dreams several times before. He enjoyed the run, the wind in his run, the blur of the trees he ran by. Jon knew that he was somewhere in the Wolfswood. He saw a light in the woods, from several fires. Jon nudged Ghost towards those fires, _these must be hunters, possibly out of Winterfell_ , he thought. Or maybe from some small holdfast or village in the castle's neighbourhood. It would be fun to see how close would they? he? they? be able to get to them.

 But when he heard a familiar voice. A VERY familiar voice, making his ears perk up in surprise. At this he willed himself, or was he willing Ghost to do it? , this dream was confusing! , to crawl nearer as to hear better. His nose picked up the smell of horse, men, the metallic and oily tang of weapons, with lots of various sorts of leather in the mix as well.

 His hair stood on end. Theon – WHAT IS HE DOING HERE? HE WAS TO BE AT PYKE ARRANGING AN ALLIANCE WITH HIS FATHER?!? -  was regaling the others with descriptions of “the women to be had” in Winterfell. Hearing graphic descriptions of girls Jon and Theon had both grown up alongside, like Beth Cassel, as “good, tight, trueborn and noble cunny with firm teats on them” made his blood boil and stomach churn at the same time. One part of him wanted to tear Theon’s throat out while another to retch at the contents of the Greyjoy’s words.

 “Whatever you say, greenlander. As long as there is loot and cunt we will follow. If there’s none we will leave you to the tender mercies of the Northmen and go back to your sister at the Motte-something place.” – somebody addressed Theon with absolutely no regard for the Greyjoy's high station.

  _“WHAT!?”_ Jon mentally shouted.

 Another voice chipped in, “Let us hope that the peasants we drowned as offering will work in our steed. We really are out on a limb so far from the sea. But seeing that your fool of a father sent us to harry the empty and poor North instead of the Reach or Westerlands, where there is ample loot and cunny galore, Winterfell and the riches and cunt to be had there which you promised us may make this whole fool’s errand worthwhile.”

 Jon woke up. What did that dream mean? Was it a dream at all? He had similar dreams before, where he dreamed of running across the woods, chasing down game and feeling the delicious blood on his tongue as he ripped the flesh of downed prey. But this? The various “whats” and “hows” swirled through his head.

 He tried to think about Ghost and he FELT him. He thought about the direwolf in a stronger way, and again his vision became black and white, with his nose picking up various scents and his ears hearing, “Not that we will be able to take any of the women. Too far to the sea to take them back as saltwives. A fuck and a knife across the throat it will be.”

 The horror caused by the general “Hurr, hurr” mixed with some groans of “a shame ‘bout them prettier ones” at those last words threw Jon out of Ghost’s mind again. He crawled out of the tent and barfed.

 Jon left a score of men with the women and servants and ordered them to make way to Castle Cerwyn and to lock themselves in the stronghold. He led the rest towards Winterfell. They arrived two or three hours after the Ironborn had infiltrated the stronghold. Finding the main gate closed Jon led his men into the castle in exactly the same manner the reavers had entered - through a postern gate.

 The cleansing of the castle of the reavers was a confusing chase after the rampaging, murdering, raping and looting Ironborn. Not familiar with the layout of the castle both sides kept on losing their way in the corridors. The servants helped the Frey and Stark bannermen track down the Squids. Or took matters into their own hands, some of the reavers were cut down by knives wielded by the staff, while a few met their deaths at the hands of the cooks and scullery wenches who dumped pots of boiling water on them.

 At some point of the cleansing Jon heard little Rickon scream “Jon! Jon! You came! You came get me!” He saw the boy break cover to rush to him across the yard.

 Jon screamed, “No! Hide! Hide!”

But the child did not hear or did not listen.

 Theon, in spite of his relatively tender years one of the best archers in the North, drew his bow and let lose. The heavy arrow, designed to penetrate mail and gambesons on men grown, simply crushed the boy’s ribcage. Rickon tumbled to the ground spewing blood from his mouth, dead before he hit the ground. Many, many years later, at the end of his days, after a life in which he walked gore soaked battlefields and blood drenched execution grounds, the memory of his youngest brother’s death, the shock and pain in the boy’s eyes still haunted Jon, just as it had all his life.

 They found Bran in his room, dead. The reavers were apparently furious over the deaths of two of their colleagues, one gutted and another skewered, by the hand of the Wildling woman defending the Stark in Winterfell. Osha, her name had been, Jon later learned. After killing the woman, and hearing the approach of Jon’s men, in their fury they killed the boy and fled the room.

 Summer and Shaggydog were going crazy in the Godswood and could not be approached until subdued by Ghost and some huntsmen with nets.


	4. VII. 299AC

**Month 7 of 299AC**

**Winterfell  
**

The reign of terror of Theon’s band at Winterfell was brief but bloody. Most of the miniscule garrison had been slaughtered – a large part murdered in their beds. Several servants were murdered as well. A few women had been raped, the shortness of the Ironborn’s presence sparing most women of such a fate. The Septon Chayle was sacrificed to the Drowned God; drowned in the Godswood’s pond by pious reavers seeking Divine favour for their enterprise.

All these deaths weighted on Jon’s soul. But he was never to forgive himself for Bran’s and Rickon’s deaths. He gained his first silver-grey hairs that day. Thankfully his goodbrother Walder, as well as the other Frey ward at Winterfell, Big Walder , both survived. At least Walda had been spared the loss of kin.

Jon stood in the Godswood before the still remaining Winterfell staff. All those assembled gave the bound Ironborn cold stares. Theon’s thugs had been whittled down to fewer than twenty; not all had surrendered and not all those who tried to lay down their arms had been given that opportunity. And only Jon’s promise that the Ironborn would be executed stopped Winterfell’s staff from killing them on the spot. Besides what they had done to the smallfolk, the Little Lords were both dead at their hands making the Northmen wroth with anger. The Stark servants' gaze held as much mercy for the Ironborn as these had held for the Northmen – none.

His homely features set in an expression hard as ice, Jon spoke in a flat voice, which helped him keep his voice under control, kept him from screaming out his rage and bereavement.

“When Brandon Ice Eyes Stark had cleansed the Wolf’s Den of slavers hundreds of years ago these had been given to the Old Gods.  The Ironborn are no more than slavers and bandits and not fit to live. Let us treat them the Old Way.”

Jon turned his cold grey eyes, shining under his mop of greasy hair, a hallmark Stark feature, at the four women of disparate ages standing at his side.  “Ladies”, he nodded, indicating that they were to commence the ceremony.

The women representing the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone began to perform the pertinent rites. They had been chosen for their roles after a thoughtful vetting process assessing their suitability. Well, there had been no real competition for the post of Crone – Old Nan was a shoo-in for the role. Serena, one of the cooks, was selected for Mother. After all Serena had brought sixteen healthy babes to this world—most of whom had reached adulthood—and was currently pregnant and not afraid to show it. Having a carrying mother onboard was considered to be Good Luck and Auspicious Beyond Measure. Jon had loyally put Walda forward for the Mother but she was disqualified on the grounds of not being a mother YET. Expecting was NOT Good Enough. Walda looked relieved, though.

The impromptu  pageant held for Maiden stand-in candidates produced a tie between the twins [Bandy](http://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Bandy) and [Shyra](http://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Shyra) and was decided by a toss of coin. However, the sniffles, teary eyes and quivering lower lip of the devastated loser of the tie-breaker led to both being chosen to officiate in the ceremony. A few members of the selection committee argued that Bandy was the better candidate, disqualifying Shyra on the grounds of the red eyes and blotchy cheeks left by the sniffling and pouting, yet were ultimately outvoted. Nobody begrudged the barely-teenage girls their eagerness – it could have been a once in a lifetime chance! Officiating as Maiden in such a ritual was held to be a guarantee of a problem free birthing bed later in life.

The women used bronze knives to slit the Ironborns’ ballsacks. Amidst the screams they then yanked the contents out and threw them into a bloody puddle front of the Heart Tree. Or, for a change of pace – they snatched the whole thing off. The sacrifices were then led away with blood streaked thighs towards suitable weirwoods for the next part of the ceremony. Their stomachs were slit, their entrails dragged out and draped over the branches. They were chased around the trunk once or twice for good measure and left to bleed to death.

Jon had been informed of the presence of the Bolton Bastard’s servant Reek – apprehended when he and his Master had been caught by Ser Roderick doing unspeakable acts to the body of a girl they had just raped and murdered – in Winterfell’s dungeons. It was a firm belief in the North that prison was Cruel and Unusual punishment. If a person could not be punished by a fine, by flogging, or loss of body part, then the only proper sentence was death. Hence the Bolton Bastard’s servant inclusion along the Ironborn.

 This Reek fellow initially was to be the last to be executed. However, Reek was visibly enjoying the proceedings. He shouted out encouragement to the women and was brimming with “helpful” suggestions focused on eliciting more pain from the sacrifices. His evident experience and expertise made those present wince in disgust. With the unexpected and singular exception of Little Walder who revelled in Reek’s verbal contribution. An unspoken decision was made for the bestial Northman to jump the cue. In spit of his screams “You can’t do this!”, “I’m made for greater things!”, “I am the Bolton Heir!”

“So – was it Reek – or was it actually Ramsey?  It did not matter which of the two he had been – _master or servant_ , the monster deserved only death,” Jon finally decided and the protesting man was castrated and gutted after less than half a dozen Ironborn.

Theon Turncloak was forced to watch all his men go before him. When his turn came he was visibly pale face and green around the gills. The heavily bruised Greyjoy Heir tried to grovel in the dirt before the Regent in the North and simpered about being sorry but was dragged away.

“You were the leader so you earned the dullest knife,” Serene hissed and smiled as she sawed at his scrotum. Being well accustomed with slaughtering various animals intended for the pot she had no problems in accomplishing her fel errand in spite of his screams, squirming, and bucking.

 Jon promptly sent out ravens informing the Lords of the North about the Red Dawn at Winterfell, as the Ironborn’s attack was quickly becoming infamous in tale and song. Naturally he also informed Robb and Lady Catelyn of both the attack and the grievous losses to the Stark family, weeping as he penned the missive. He also sent the acting Lady Mormont – Alysane - a special message about his plans of action against the reavers at Deepwood Motte.  The missive to Bear Island went out by a circuitous route Maester Luwin had recommended - through the Northern Mountains - as otherwise the bird would have to pass above Deepwood Motte itself, thus exposing the bird to interception or being skewered with arrows.

On the next day after the execution of the Ironborn Jon took all the horses he could and set out for Deepwood Motte with threescore men, each with two mounts. Even with spare horses it would take him about a week to get there through the vastness of the Wolfswood. He wished to deal with Asha Greyjoy's army as fast as he could. Jon hoped to pick up some riders from the Masterly Houses of the Wolfswood. In his absence, it was the babe barely quickening in Walda’s womb which was to serve as the Stark in Winterfell.

Master Luwin had also briefed him of other developments in the North, including various Ironborn attacks. Jon was certain that Ser Roderik was more than competent, and had enough men to deal with the reavers at Torrhelm’s Square.

 

 

**A few days later in the Riverlands.**

When Catelyn returned  to  Riverun after her failed mission at Storm’s End to make an alliance with one of the Baratheons, a grim-faced Brynden presented her with a missive from Winterfell.

_"The bastard wrote that WHAT?!? NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”_

  “Why them?!? Why not him?!? My babes!!!!! Why didn’t he save them?!?”

 But deep down Lady Catelyn knew that the Bastard was not to blame. Nevertheless she still recoiled from assigning the blame where it belonged. It was only a tiny voice at the back of her mind which whispered, “Oh Robb, you foolish boy! You killed Bran and Rickon by sending Theon to Pyke! I TOLD YOU that it was a bad idea!”

 And the Bastard _also_ had advised not letting Theon out their eyesight.

 Family.

 Duty.

 Honour.

 The Lady Catelyn knew that she had to do. She had to get her still-remaining children back. She decided there and then that she must trade the Kingslayer for her daughters – and throw in any other prisoners if necessary–consequences be damned. She needed them with her, with her the girls would be safe! She would bide her time and then release the Lannister – after making him swear upon the Seven and his honour as Knight – so he could go to Kings Landing and send her daughters to her!

 Family.

 Duty.

 Honour.

 She would even bed him if he wanted. As all men were sex obsessed swine - _even her Ned had strayed_ \- that was highly likely. And she was no hag ( _she subconsciously patted her hair and glanced at a reflective surface_ ) if male gazes lingering on her figure – and after five children too! – were anything to go by. Yes, if necessary she would rut with him, pretend to like it, even cry out his name as she faked being "pushed over the edge" by his “skillful swordplay.”

 Family.

 Duty.

 Honour.

 Her Duty was to Family.

  _What’s keeping one’s Honour good for when all you have to show for it are dead children?_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took the idea of women performing the rites related with the Old Gods from a wonderful fic "The Duel" by Aiur. I recommend it.  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/4937815/chapters/11331502  
> https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11543139/1/  
> GRRM borrowed the idea of Maiden, Mother and Crone from various cultures in our world. The cult of the Old Gods using those three stages - could be parallel development, could be Andals borrowing from First Men - or the other way around. And this cultural cross-pollenisation could had happened a few thousand years previously.


	5. VII-VIII.299AC

Jon met with the Bear Islanders on a wooded peninsula a few leagues away from Deepwood Motte. He guessed that the younger Lady Maege look-alike was Lady Alysane, her second-eldest daughter. The woman gave him a good eye-over. She must have liked what she saw as a smile graced her homely face.

“By the tales I hear about you should be seven feet tall and built like an aurox, yet I see a skinny milksop who I could smother with my teats,” she japed. Indeed, they were of a height, and she was broader.  And broader in the shoulders, too.

Jon pouted _. He was a man grown! He was to become a father! He...._

The she-bear laughed in his face. “And what a sulky little princess do we have here! I know that look – ‘I’ve killed a man and I fucked a girl so I’m a man grown!’ Puff out your hairy chest while you are at it – you are not cute enough to pull off that pout. Well, I killed my first man and popped a rug-rat out of my twat before you spat out your first milk ... your first milk-FANG!” Alysane laughed at her own jape, with quite a few amused guffaws coming from all around. Alysane grabbed Jon’s arm and pulled him towards her camp. “Come, let us plot how to exterminate the vermin.”

The combined Northern force numbered some three hundred fifty warriors. Just under one hundred cavalry, as Jon had managed to pick about twenty riders from various Wolfswood Masterly Houses – about two hundred foot levies from Bear Island and some men from Glover lands.

This left them outnumbered only three-to-one by the Ironborn. The men-at-arms led by Jon and Alysane had their equal match in Ironborn nobles and _their_ men-at-arms, while the Bear Island levies were of same quality as the average reaver – armed with knife, club and spear, with a shield, dirty shirt and their own stench for armour. Yet the North outnumbered the reavers two-to-naught in Direwolves! With Shaggydog uncontrollable Jon had left him chained in the kennels in Winterfell. A combination of Summer being better trained by Bran, Ghost’s influence, and maybe being of a sweeter disposition than the black-furred beast made Jon risk taking Bran’s direwolf with them.

Lady Alysane and Jon attacked the Ironborn camp outside the keep of Deepwood Motte at dawn. The direwolves disposed of the pickets and total surprise was achieved. Under the onslaught of a fully-prepared force the barely-woken, unarmoured and haphazardly-armed Ironborn yielded. The two direwolfs running amok through the camp ripping flesh and crushing bone also played a role. As did the flames of the first longships set alight by the Bear Islanders. Asha Greyjoy, in the keep of Deepwood Motte, tried to obtain terms but the threat to the ships made her surrender unconditionally. She was reluctant to yield but forced to do so by her own men. Asha had tried to use the family of Lord Glover as leverage – but Jon pointed out that he had ten Iron Born nobles for every hostage she held – and that he would happily behead them all in front of the gate himself if she did not surrender unconditionally.

A small war council led by the two commanders and attended by other nobles present on the spot, this including Lady Sybelle Glover – albeit the lady appeared to be no more than a mouthpiece for her castellan - decided upon the fate of the prisoners. The idea of ransoming the captives – as was custom – was rejected upon the insistence of the Regent in the North. His argument, that if ransomed the Ironborn could return, was finally, if grudgingly accepted.  The Lady Sybelle – meaning her castellan - was placated by Jon not claiming any of the loot for himself, but instead relinquishing it to House Glover as compensation for damage caused by the Ironborn as well as for the loss of ransom money.

During the feast after the battle the regent of Bear Island cornered Jon in a side corridor of the keep. “I’m a skin changer, you know. My children were fathered by a bear I met in the woods. Maybe this time it will be a wolf that will put a pup in my belly...” – Lady Alysane fondled Jon’s firm buttock with one hand while drawing him to her bosom with the other. She nuzzled his neck; drew her hot, coarse tongue along his collarbone....

Flustered, Jon caught her hand and minced away, trying to put as much distance between them. “My lady,”  he gasped and raised his hands as if to stop the lady from pouncing upon him ,“I’m a married man! I’ve a babe on the way! I wish to stay true!”

“Oh.” The disappointment was heavy upon the pouting lips of the young she-bear. However, she was not some man-stealing slut so she did not press her attentions upon the beet red long faced half-Stark. The Regent in the North fled the site of the incident to the safety of his tent and to the safety and comforting warmth of Ghost’s furry flank. There the direwolf happily licked his face – thankfully the direwolf’s tongue, even hotter and coarser than Lady Alysane’s, did not have any designs upon his marital vows ... 

Looking at the back of Jon fleeing from her the young she-bear shrugged. The skinny runt was not her type anyway, she sniffed. Alysane had been carried away by lust, Jon simply had been there then and then. She liked them big and hairy, like that wilding she had caught three years previously. She had demanded that the hairy man – very hairy; and also delightfully thick _everywhere_ – please her or it was “off with his head!” Now, _that_ was from a song – the song of _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_ to be exact. Just like in the song _“he licked her honey_ , _”_ Alysane squeezed her thighs together at the memory. Oh, that had been a _night_! She not only had let him live, but also named their son after him.

Her blood still up from the battle, and now aroused even further by those memories Alysane stalked the revellers with feline grace, like a cougar of the Mountains of the Moon – prowling for a man to bed this night. And if she failed in her quest then she would take the matter into her own hands. The dearth of males at Bear Island – the men being lost either to the cruel sea or raiders from Beyond the Wall or the Iron Islands -  made Bear Island womenfolk highly adept at manipulation of ‘the little man in the boat’. Truth be had that such a skill was only to be expected from a tribe of island-dwelling fisherwoman.

Next day

As they were of comparable rank it fell upon either the Mormont or Jon to announce the fate of the prisoners; House Glover was only of Masterly rank and thus lower down the pecking order. Also, Lady Sybelle Glover did not convey a particularly martial or stern air. In light of the above and the fact that most of his force, in quantity if not quality, came from Bear Island Jon deferred to the young she-bear in passing on the commands to their combined force.

But, first and foremost, the battle plan had been hers plan and it had been Alysane who actually commanded the battle. After she had laughed at his ideas and pointed out their ... _silliness_ Jon had quickly deferred to the Young She-Bear's experience - she had over a decade of leading armed men under her belt, while he had a few weeks. So it was only right and honourable to let her do the talking.

Remembering the dire state of the Nights Watch Jon was glad that he could do something about it. He smiled inwardly when the Mormont lady boomed out:  “Decimate the prisoners. That means that you pick every tenth man, you blockheads – not nine out of ten! Take the best warriors. These will be gifted to the Nights Watch. Kill those refusing to take the Black. That should be good motivation for the others. As to the reminder - pick out the nobles and take them to the Godswood. Keep the rest bound – these will be disposed off later.”

 The nobleborn Iron Islanders were sacrificed to the Gods that Hath No Name in same manner as Theon and his reavers at Winterfell had been. With the same awe inspiring miraculous after-effects which made the smallfolk bow a bit deeper to the Ice Wolf, as Jon was now becoming known. White Wolf was yet another name given to him by sycophants wishing to gain favour. Although mutterings of a different name for him began as well ...

 

**Two weeks before, in Winterfell**

 The bodies of the Ironborn had been left for the night in the Godswood. In the early morning of the next day Jon was dragged out of Walda’s warm embrace by excited servants from the body disposal detail.

 There had been a wondrous and miraculous happenstance!

 Truly a Sign from the Gods!

 Indeed – the corpses of the Ironborn did not look how they should. By now, after half a year at the front, Jon had quite some experience with dead bodies. He knew very well how a day-old corpse looked like. Which the Ironborn’s bodies did not look like at all! Their carrion looked like flies in a spider’s web – dry, desiccated, as if all their juices had been sucked out of them. They were all skin and bones – the dry skin drawn taught over an inexplicably brittle skeleton. The puddles of blood had almost disappeared as well, leaving only a thin crust of flaking gore on the grass instead of the expected congealed mess. Maester Luwin commented that they looked like corpses which had been “mummified” in the dry and hot desert air of Dorne – and refused to comment either way when asked had this been a Miracle or Magic. To Jon’s reasoning – as the climate of the North was definitely neither hot nor dry - it must had been one or the other...

 The reavers’ bodies were thrown into the midden nonetheless, miracle or no miracle.

 

**Back at Deepwood Motte**

 As to the remaining seven hundred or so prisoners – these were first forced to strip. Then, naked, barefoot, and with hands bound, they were driven by lash and at spear point across the expanse of the tidal flats abutting Deepwood Motte. Once they reached the waves of the incoming tide their “herders” – led personally by Lady Alysane and Jon – turned around and raced their mounts across the sands towards the shore. They were chased by screams and curses, and running Ironborn. 

 Northmen enjoyed the spectacle from the safety of the dunes, observing the reavers trying to outrace the incoming sea:

 “For gits supposedly not scared of drowning they sure are running fast ...”

 “A threepenny on them not reaching them red rocks over there!”

 “A groat that at least one passes the rocks with them weeds on them!”

 “Two stars that at least three of those fuckers pass the timbers of the old wreck!”

 “A stag! A stag on ...”

 “Oh, fuck off – I know you ain't got a stag on you!”

 “Three stars and a knife that at least one git reaches the shore!”

 “Mommy, why are the bad men running?”

 “They were bad. And are too craven to take their punishment.”

 

 

 Jon looked at the two panting Ironborn who had outrun the waves. Maybe the Gods favoured them. Or maybe they simply were good runners. Very good runners. Nonetheless their survival was a sign from the Gods, surely.  “As mercy you can take the Black.”

One of the men tried to spit at him but his mouth was still dry after the run. “That which is dead maaaARGH—”

The Lady Alysane interrupted the recitation of the Drowned God’s Creed by cracking his skull with her trusty mace, “Nyah, nyah. We’ve all heard that bullshit before.” She looked at her mace, now dirty again, and sighed. Her squire had only finished scrubbing it clean after the battle a mere hour before. Now it was sticky with brain goo again ...

Her gaze turned to the fresh corpse and ended what the man had began to say “—Stays dead!” and belly chuckled to a general “hurr, hurr” of those present.

The other man, his hairy chest with well-defined muscles still heaving, his nipples hard and puckered in the centre of his brown areolas, the dark curls running over his ripped abs down to his boy bits undulating to the rhythm of his heavily working diaphragm, rasped out:

“The Black.”

He was dragged before the Heart Tree and made to recite:

_Night gathers, and now my watch begins._

_It shall not end until my death._

_I shall take no wife, hold ..._

  
 

The next day Jon sent the bulk of his force back to Winterfell by a path winding through the Wolfwood from one holdfast to another, thus providing the men and horses with provisions and shelter on their way. He himself struck out cross country with only his Boys and the sole remaining prisoner - Asha Greyjoy.

 


	6. VIII 299AC

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I got sucked into world building ...

  **8 th Month of 299AC **

 

_Two days after the Battle of Deepwood Motte at Castle Black_

  “First Builder, it happened again,” Bob addressed his commanding officer, First Builder Othell Yarwyck, with the familiarity of over twenty years of service on the Wall together. The Westerlander blinked in surprise - the incredible occurrence of some two weeks had repeated itself? This was beyond belief!

 Just over a fortnight ago, the men of the Night’s Watch had woken up to a slightly changed Wall. Crevices had lost part of their depth, fissures had narrowed, and some of the smallest cracks had closed. Previously uneven, pitted surfaces had slightly smoothed-over. Some of the changes were minute but, being men with little else to do, they had watched the snow melt on those walls and knew every inch of them. Somehow, the Wall had repaired itself. _And, now again_.

 The two old men debated this self-repair yet they reached no conclusions. All they knew was that the Wall had been RIGHTED—and apparently done so itself, with no involvement of the Night’s Watch in the matter. The Wall somehow _felt_ more _wholesome_ too. The Brothers of the Watch could only hope that whatever the cause was, that this “righting” was a Good Thing. Although it could just as well could be a portent of Great Things, which are not necessarily Good Things. The First Builder and Bob decided that the Builders – and the other two Orders of Nights Watch too – needed to be informed and instructed to be on the lookout for more changes. What scared the two Builders most of all were the blue roses sprouting in unexpected places, like the top of the Wall, for instance. Pretty flowers on the Wall - now that was a portent of DOOM, surely?!?

 

_Meanwhile, in the Bay of Ice, on a longship sent by Dadmar Cleftjaw from Torrhen’s Square to Deepwood Motte…_

  “What da fuck?” – Ulric “Scales” (nicknamed thus for some poxy skin condition) yelled to Romeo “Pigfart”, the lookout who was waving to attract his attention. 

 “Lookit da shore!”

 Scales squinted over the starboard side of the longship and walked up to the side to get a better look.

 “Fuck me sideways,” he muttered in surprise.

 Somebody on the shore was making signals at them. As the Ironborn had been harrying these shores for a few months now, it was not normal for anybody to be making signs at a longship. Unless ... unless these were other reavers, stranded for some reason.

  Two hours later, Scales was elated for having decided to investigate and giving his big brother Danny “Smooth Moves” [ _the best dancer in Benetko on Harlaw_ ] a vice-like bear hug.

 Ulric was listening to his brother:

 “ ... and when we returned from our patrol the whole camp was overrun by the Northmen. None of ours could be seen anywhere! The whole army – gone! Only fucking Northmen under fucking Bear and Wolf banners all over the place!”  

 Ulric knew that he had to get this news to the Clefjaw the soonest possible. But first things first ...

 Scales looked around the ship until he found the girl they had taken off the Stony Shore. She was subject to a strict “hands off” order. “Untouched” her value was much higher than had she been “used” – _if he managed to stir the hymen-poppers into a bidding frenzy he’d be able to sell her for six, maybe even seven dragons_! But Ulric was a pious man – and the Drowned God’s Creed included the Commandment of “Bros Before Hos.” Scales walked up to the girl, yanked her to her feet by the hair and dragged to the starboard side. The Drowned Men taught that “starboard was for offerings of gratitude,” while “port was for supplications.” He threw her over the railing and mumbled a prayer of gratitude for bringing his brother to him as the girl shrieked a few times before disappearing under the waves.

 

_Meanwhile, in the Wolfswood_

 “Come to have your wicked way with me, Wolf Boy?” the Ironborn asked with a mocking smirk. “Wiff poow leedle helpless me?” she needled him, jiggling her jugs and jutting out a generous hip. The cockiness and arrogance were all too familiar to Jon. The arrogance that had plagued his childhood from the moment Father had brought the Turncloak from Pyke. His mind skipped back ... to the murdered and raped women at Winterfell and at Deepwood Motte. With blood streaks on their thighs - which they tried to hide in shame. To Bran in his bed of blood. To Rickon cut down so cruelly young. He no longer remembered what he had come to ask Asha about. Almost certainly something or other about Ironborn politics or military. But he was no longer interested in those details.

“No,” he shook his head. “I’m a family man. But my men are not.” He turned on his heel, turned and left.

“She is yours, boys.” Jon barked out, giving a jerk of his head towards the tent.

When the screams of the Greyjoy heir - being introduced to a deeper understanding of the Ironborn's "Old Way"  - got too much for him Jon left the campfire and headed for the horses. It was quieter there.

 “You go take your turn” – he told Walder “Whitelick”, the Walder with a white streak in his otherwise brown mane, and nicknamed thus to differentiate him from the other five Walder River’s amongst his men. “I’ll take your post and keep watch here for the time being.”

 The next day they made camp next to one of several Godswoods scattered across the Wolfswood. Jon knelt in the leaves rotting before the Heart Tree and prayed. When Asha’s screams penetrated into his communion with the Gods That Hath No Name he repeated his prayer – he wanted the Gods to hear his thoughts loud and clear.

A few days later after routine morning activities two of the Walders, Baldy and Flopear, dragged a half-naked and barely-conscious Asha before their Lord Snow. Jon nodded, the woman had had enough.

“We leave her here,” he commanded. “Let the North take her.”

 Half a candle-mark later the camp was empty. Asha was still alive when Ghost sniffed at her torso and laved her nullipara-pink nipple, erect from the cold, with his prize-ham pink hot and course tongue, and screamed when he tore off her breast. Munching on his breakfast Ghost was a happy puppy, his Two-Leg had given him a day off and he did not need to hunt.

 

_A week later in Winterfell_

 Once back in Winterfell, Maester Luwin immediately roped Jon setting the North to rights. With the Ironborn around Torrhen’s Square being dealt with by the capable Ser Roderik there were two pressing matters – the Ironborn at Moat Cailin, and the Boltons.

 As to the reavers at the Neck, Maester Luwin suggested leaving them for later. “Scouts report that it is supposed to be ‘the whole Iron Fleet.’ Going by common wisdom it would be ‘one hundred ships twice the size of a longship’, which would mean six thousand men. Ridiculous. If that were true, then one in four, if not one in three, of every fighting man the Iron Islands could raise were on those ships. Hence, it cannot be more than fifty or sixty ships with some three, maybe three and half-thousand men. Oddly, the more of them the better for us.” 

  Jon was stupefied at this “the more enemy warriors the better for the North” logic.  The Maester explained that Victorian Greyjoy and his forces were in the middle of a swamp, with hostile wildlife and amidst an even more hostile human population. Once they ate the provisions they brought with them, they would have to abandon Moat Cailin or leave only a token garrison there. Hence he suggested to “give time _time_ ” to resolve the issue by itself.

  As to the Boltons, Maester Luwin stated, “Had it been a lesser House the abduction, forced marriage, rape and – if the rumours are true – _murder_ of Lady Hornwood would had led to a Writ of Outlawry being passed against it. A lower House would be declared extinct, its lands seized, living members banned from their former lands and they would lose their House Name – making them all now Snows. But the Boltons are arguable the second House of the North and Lord Roose enjoys the King's confidence and leads Army Group East. Hence discretion is advised.” And here Maester Luwin outlined his plan ...

  And there was yet another matter that Maester Luwin felt the need to address, “My Lord, my Lady,” Luwin spoke to Jon and Walda. “Winterfell needs a lady. The household has been slowly going to the dogs since the Lady Catelyn had left for Kings Landing a year ago. Although young,” he nodded at Walda “I’m sure that lady Walda would know how to run the household. With no disrespect intended – anybody is better than nobody. Nobody here has neither the training nor the stature that Lady Walda has.”

  Walda nodded. Like all other trueborn girls at the Twins she had been given lessons on how to manage a household. Plus taught the basics of managing an estate for her future lord husband, as lesser Lords or Landed Knights often did not employ stewards but expected much of this task to be performed by their wives.

  Jon sighed, “Would not that mean that Lady Catelyn would dislike me even more? Would she not construct it as usurpation of Winterfell?”

  Luwin sadly nodded, “She will. But you are in a ‘damned if you do and damned if you don’t’ situation.  You either let Winterfell go to rot or be suspected of nefarious intent. I shall take upon myself to explain this to King Robb.”

  Walda indicated that she wished to speak. Glancing from time to time at Jon, checking if she was not overstepping her station – yet Jon only kept on nodding and smiling, encouraging her to continue - she outlined her plan.  During her stay at Castle Cerwyn she had an opportunity to observe the Cerwyn household. That had given her an idea.

 “Lady Jonelle is more than twice the age of her brother. For many years she had been the only surviving child and – with no assurance of Lord Cley surviving his infancy and childhood – she had been the heiress and trained accordingly. With Lord Cley almost a man grown he chaffs at her running the estate in their father’s absence. They quarrel incessantly. Maybe the Lady Jonelle could be brought in as steward or chatelaine to assist me?”

  Jon thought this to be an excellent idea and hugged her, with a buss on the cheek, leaving Walda pink with pleasure. Luwin seemed pleased with this idea as well. Like all other Maesters’ he had been prepared to assist his future Master with running their demesne – but running the household was _not_ on the curriculum. That was a woman’s work and thus below Learned Men of the Order of Maesters such as he.

 What Luwin had not told the young couple (the less said to Lord Jon about Lady Catelyn the better) was that the female side of Winterfell had been on a downwards slope since Lady Lyarra had died. That had happened almost forty years ago, before Luwin's coming to Winterfell, but enough servants had survived into his first years at the North's capital as to give him facts as to what had transpired before his time. To be honest the Maester thought that the slide concerned the whole of Stark's rule.

 After his wife’s death soon after bearing Benjen the Lord Rickard had never remarried, counting upon Brandon bringing a wife to Winterfell soon. Lady Lyanna had been too young, too wilful and simply unsuited for the role of lady of the Castle – older servants had told the Maester that she had the attention span of a six year old, attracted by whatever new “shiny” that came along and dangled before her.

 Once installed at Winterfell Lady Catelyn had proved to be more than capable as administrator of the castle and its staff. Same as Jonelle Cerwyn, her father had despaired of seeing a son succeed him so he had trained her as the next Lord Paramount of the Riverlands. However, she was of the South. And so was her Vale-raised husband ... Hence the two stumbled along, oblivious of Northern customs, yet through skill and some luck Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn managed to steer past any major disasters.

  Nevertheless the “never-were” betrothal between Rob and Alys Karstark – a marriage proposal spectacularly bungled and botched by both sides – had given a death blow to the restoration of a viable “female court” at Winterfell. And left the North with a dim view of their Lord and his Lady Wife.

 Luwin and his colleagues corresponded and shared information beyond that expressly ordered by their masters. They did not gossip – perish the thought! – that was for women. So they did not _gossip_ – they _shared_ information pertinent to the governance of their lord’s estates. Even though the _pertinent information_ included such jewels of knowledge like Lady X putting on weight and her bodice ripping while dancing at Lord X’s daughter’s wedding, or Lord Y siring a bastard on his wife’s sister, or Lady Z wearing a dress clashing with her hair, or the Lord XYZ being a miser and including a lame horse in his daughter’s dowry.

 It was this "Maester grapevine" which had told Luwin why - over time - Lady Catelyn's "court" had dwindled to Septa Mordane and the daughters of higher ranked styark retainers residing at Winterfell.  Simply the general - even if not fully merited - attitude of Northmen (and North _women_!) towards Winterfell brought about by the "Southron airs of the ruling couple and reinforced by the “Alys Karstark incident” could be summed up as - “don’t bother to foster children with the Starks”.

 Thus the perception of Winterfell being run by a “stuck-up Sevener Southron” killed off any thoughts of sending girls - and their attendant older female relations - to the Stark's Hall. The thinking ran along the lines of- “Why bother? They have no chances to marry any of Tully-looking Stark boys anyway – the Quiet Vale Wolf and his Trout will doubtlessly find Southron brides for them. And with the Stark girls as likely as not to be married in the South, there are no networking ties to be won with neither Sansa nor Arya”.  

Hence Lady Catelyn's attempts at finding replacements for her companions - as the women she had originally brought with her from Riverun gradually all left for marital matches arranged for them in the Riverlands - all had been politely yet firmly rebuffed by Lordly Houses of the North. The same applied to requests to have nobles' children sent as wards, squires or handmaidens to Winterfell. Over time lady Catelyn lost heart and simply stopped trying. 

 


	7. VIII-XI. 299AC

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mostly world building and some fanservice

**15 th day of the 11th month of 299AC**

_In the Iron Islands, at Pyke_

King Euron Greyjoy, the Crow's Eye, smiled. His stupid brother got himself killed. Good riddance! That saved him the bother of having to kill Balon by his own hand. Though he still had to kill that idiot Botley, who had refused to accept him as King. The Crow’s Eye was only mildly irritated at Balon’s moronic attack on the North; it had cost the Ironborn around a hundred ships and about fifteen hundred men, quite close to one-tenth of what the Iron Islands could muster, for absolutely no gain. However, most of the losses came from amongst Houses with ties to House Harlaw, a good thing in his point of view. Thus the Harlaws, weaklings ready to follow the treasonous New Way - albeit with a weak claim on the Seastone Chair - were rendered impotent and incapable of challenging his rule.

As to that ill-thought attack on the North - it was a good thing that Dagmer Cleftjaw and his own blood-brother Victorian were not stupid, or rather, not _that_ stupid, Euron corrected himself. Once they received news of the loss of the northern invasion force under the stupid bitch they had dug in, feigned operations, and thus minimised their losses. And sailed back to Pyke at the first pretext – disregarding Balon’s orders and ignoring his ranting about punishment.

 Having the fleets back and refurbishing was a great boon. Had he first needed to recall the ships from the North, Euron would had needed at least ninety days, if not a full four months, to ready them for a new attack. Having the ships back at the Iron Islands would allow him to strike at the Fair Islands in the second month of next year, maybe even earlier. Or - at the very worst - in the first weeks of third month at the latest.

 Another good thing, and the best thing to come out of this "Harrying of the North" clusterfuck, was Asha the Upitty Cunt and Theon the Greenlander Little Shit getting themselves killed. Euron had laughed himself to bits when he learned of the Bastard of Winterfell’s answer to Balon’s offer of a parley over the terms of release of his last two children.

 “Dead.”

 For a laugh out loud! – What a joker! The Bastard was a man of few words! How STARK of him!

 And he again saved Euron from the bother of having to kill the two whelps and kept the stain of “kinslayer” away from him. Truly, the Drowned God was heaping favours upon him! All those sacrifices of loot and captives over the railings had not been for naught!

 Euron, naturally, intended to punish the North. Someday. Maybe in a few years. After dealing with more pressing – and richer – targets. After he had brought back the Old Way. His brother was too stupid and too soft to achieve this! But Euron was smarter and he will prevail! He will make the World burn! And make the World fear the Iron Born once again – just as it should!

 

_In Winterfell_

 Walda knelt before the Heart Tree. Its eerie grimace still freaked her out. But a girl had to do what a girl had to do. Her husband was of the North and was a Tree Hugger writ large. So she felt that it was her duty to embrace the Old Gods. Another thing was the miracle with the Ironborns’ bodies. Walda and her handmaidens had been _taught_ about miracles performed in the name of the Faith. They had _heard_ and _read_ about them. Yet they had never _witnessed_ them. And now they had _seen_ a miracle of the Old Gods with their own eyes. After talking this over with the girls she broached the subject of the Sept with Jon. He visibly winced at her mention of the Sept and gave a long suffering sigh. Walda giggled inwardly – men were so simple and so easy to read – her husband had “Oh My Gods – she will ask me to bring in a Septon for her!” written all over his face! He had been so relieved when she had explained that she and the other girls from The Twins will worship in the Godswood! Sooo relieved that it was funny!

 Jon – or was that too familiar a manner to think of one’s Lord Husband? – had tried to hide his low regard for The Faith. But Walda could read him like an open book. The fact that he felt the need to marry her again before a Tree was a strong hint that Jon deemed the “Sevener” rite not to suffice. “Sevener”, she rolled the word on her tongue – she had never heard this term before meeting her husband. It clearly was derogatory as strongly suggested by the scowl - unusually deep even for him – which always accompanied this word. Another of her husband’s issues which could be laid at the feet of Lady Catelyn, she guessed.

 Walda wondered if in different circumstances she herself would had kept Jon’s bastards out of the Sept. Like Lady Catelyn had done. At the Twins the bastards and their mothers worshiped at the Sept alongside the trueborns – well, not alongside, but in the back pews. As was only fitting for the Lower Orders. Then again, they all were of the Faith there. Confusing business, various denominations is – she concluded and stopped contemplating theological issues. Such deep thoughts made her hungry. Then again, she was almost always hungry. Nevertheless Walda made herself focus on the ceremony she came to the Godswood for.

 One of her handmaidens passed a lit lamp which Walda placed in front of the Heart Tree. It was the _Sweet Nineteen_ ceremony marking the midway point of gestation. Nineteen weeks down and nineteen more to go. This Thanksgiving for not miscarrying during the first half of pregnancy was held to herald the end of morning sickness which so many women had to endure and to usher accelerated baby bump growth. Here Walda was different than all those other women – she had continued to enjoy a healthy appetite with no side effects. Well, maybe she was a _little_ more flatulent. Walda did not even have any particular cravings which she had seen other women experience – Walda heartily munched her way through everything that was available. She wondered about the bump growing business, though. She already had a bump there ... Walda felt that her tummy had grown a little already, but mostly it just got harder, no longer as soft as it had been. She felt warmth creep into her cheeks as she recalled Jon caressing her tummy, nuzzling his beard against it, ghosting kisses over her soft curves, murmuring terms of endearment into her rolls – _so soft, so beautiful_ , his tongue in her navel, his tongue _there_ ...

 

_Outside Moat Cailin_

Jon admired Maester Luwin’s brilliant analysis of the dearth of provisions the reavers would ultimately face. Indeed, the Ironborn fleet had left the Neck. Same as the other fleet – under Dagmer Cleftjaw - which had harassed Tallhart and Ryswell lands around Torrhen’s Square and Barrowton. Thus the situation with the reavers - while Jon had dealt with the disgusting mess at the Dreadfort - had largely resolved itself on it own.

Victorian Greyjoy had left a miserly garrison at Moat Cailin, one hundred men, if at that. Gods willing this obstacle would be dealt with by the end of the day. Jon idly wondered what Lord Reed wanted from him. The head of the Crannogmen had approached him in private and said that once the Ironborn were eliminated, Reed wished to have a four-eyes-only talk, supposedly over some very sensitive and very personal matter. And the Lord of the Neck had eyed him carefully all the time they had been together, as if sizing him up, evaluating him, judging him.  Giving him an eye over. Just like once Lady Catelyn, and now his wife, gave him before a feast or public appearance. For a moment there Jon feared that the man would spit on a hanky and rub some non-existing dirt off his cheek! He wondered what Lord Reed could wish to discuss - he was confused and curious.

His small force - still including Frey bannermen recalled by Lord Walder yet cut off by the Ironborn and thus incapable of returning home - began to smoke out the reavers from Moat Cailin, quite literally.  His men and the local Crannogmen had gathered fresh wood and set the green fuel alight upwind from the still-serviceable three towers, sending clouds of smoke towards the defenders. Some Ironborn suffocated, some succumbed to the fumes and were dragged out unconscious, and some broke down the doors and stumbled out seeking air to breath. Nevertheless, a few of the reavers still had a good fight in them. One arrow, shot out blindly into the billowing smoke, killed Lord Reed. After paying his respects to the man, said to have been his father’s closest friend, Jon instantly forgot about the supposedly important business the Crannogmen had wished to broach with him.

With the Kingsroad now clear of foes Jon was able to answer Robb’s summons. He had a wedding to attend. He grit his teeth – beloved brother or not, liege lord or not, Robb had proved to be an Oath Breaker. This saddened and distressed Jon. This was _not_ the 'Stark Way'. And the Freys were _their_ kinsmen now. Although a bunch of gits in general a few were all right. He ground his teeth again – time to get back to the task at hand! He will get the whole story – as ravens could carry only so much - out of Robb soon. Jon nodded to his men to drag the next prisoner to the block - he was glad to see that the gaggle of Ironborn captives had dwindled to only a few. Jon's arms were sweetly sore – he had began the job immediately after the battle and by now had beheaded a score of reavers already. He drew a hand across his sweat streaked brow, wiped his hands on his trews and bent to pick up his sword.

SWING!

THUNK!

Blood splattered on the Heart Tree.

“Next!”

 

_Beyond the Wall, in a cave in the Haunted Forest_

The Greenseer always could feel the Wall. It was literally a wall of low level, latent magic lying all across the southern arc of his Third Eye senses. The Wall was “always there”, a permanent, unchanging presence. Yet some three months ago or so he thought that it had changed. Two weeks after that fleeting feeling he experienced the same sensation again and this time he was certain – there had been a change. The Magic of the Wall was indeed stronger.

He let his spirit roam the Weir-Wood-Web.

In the past he saw Brandon the Builder make blood offerings by the thousands – First Men, Giants, even a few Children – all butchered before Heart Trees to infuse the Wall with wards against the Others and their Wights. This slaughter gave the Wall enough Power to last millennia. Yet it had leeched away, bit by bit, year by year, century by century. The Wards – designed to prevent the Others and their Thralls from even approaching the Wall, had long deteriorated from impregnable through strongly repellent down to mildly irritant.

After those two injections of Power the Three Eyed Raven had been on the lookout for more, hoping to observe the blood-sacrifices as they happened. He witnessed the offerings made before the Heart Tree at the Dreadfort. There had been no spike of Power from there as the sacrifices were not en mass but in dribs and drabs.

Today there was more Power flowing through the Weir-Wood-Web into the Wall. The Greenseer used the eyes of the Heart Tree at Moat Cailin to observe the sacrifices. He watched the half-Stark – stripped to his waist due to the heat – enhance the blood-magic of the Wall. His whole upper body was slick with a thin film of sweat which glistened in the harsh light and highlighted his musculature. The strong arms, the broad and hairy back, the ripped abs, the firm butt. He watched as the man put his sword aside, drew his hand across his heavy, bushy brows, and then wipe his hands against that rock hard butt and beckon for another sacrifice to be brought to the block.

 The Three Eyed Raven was certain that the man had absolutely no idea what he was doing. Thank the Gods That Hath No Name for that ... Jon Snow’s piety. Piety with lashings of bloody mindedness. Literally. One does not look a gift horse – a horse-faced Stark - in the mouth, the Greenseer mentally sniggered.

 


	8. XI. 299AC

30th day of the 11th month of 299AC

 

_In Harrenhall_

Roose Bolton sighed with relief. He had a double dose of leeches on him to draw away the bad humours. He had a lot of those lately. The war not going exactly well, to begin with. Then his bastard behaving like a fool and getting himself killed. And by the hand of the Stark Bastard, no less. And then, the said Stark Bastard showed up at the gates of the Dreadfort with over two thousand men, mostly under the Manderley banner. But with sizeable contingents from the Karstarks, Umbers, Cerwyns, and others too. And browbeat the Castellan to be let inside.

As a result the Bolton lands were now under temporary attainment and ruled by Lord Too-Fat-To-Ride. To add insult to injury the Stark Bastard – after forcing his way into HIS castle - had judged and punished men sworn to the Bolton’s and carrying out the orders of Ramsey – the rightful regent of the Dreadfort. That would not do at all – this was a grave insult to the Bolton’s! Roose will have none of this. The bastard wolf had been a fool to cross him.

 Yet stupidity simply seemed to run in the family. King Robb had spat on his honour and – more importantly – had insulted Lord Walder Frey and married some _nobody_ from a destitute House. Said destitute House with a half-ruined keep being from the _Westerlands_ , no less. The offer of Lord Edmure’s hand for a Frey bride did not seem adequate compensation; a lord, even if Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, was NOT a King, after all. But the bigest damage was showing to the world that his word was wind. Also, for all his victories in the field, King Robb was no closer to ending the war in the West than he had been when crossing the bridge at the Twins almost a year ago.

 The North’s chances for winning anything in this war had ended a few days ago when another of the Five Kings, Stannis, had been beaten badly during his attempt to take Kings landing by the new Lannister-Tyrell coalition. With no sizeable army left the last of the Baratheon brothers was sulking on Dragonstone, powerless. And apparently this victorious Lannister-Tyrell coalition had brought the Martells on board as well. It was now about the North’s survival, not restoration of the Kingdom in the North nor revenge for the late Lord Eddard.

 And frankly the Northern Lords were slowly becoming disgruntled with the performance of their liege Lord. They had dutifuly called their banners when the Young Wolf had requested. They had been outraged both by Eddard’s arrest and later execution, true. But their anger had been more about the Southrons harming one of their own than out of any deeper feelings for their Vale-raised Lord. And they got a slap in the face when Robb agreed to take a Frey bride. Never in living memory had the Starks wed in the South for two generations in a row. Both Eddard’s and Robb’s marriages had been for the same reason – to buy Southron swords for Stark’s southern adventures which had nothing to do with the North.

 After all the previous mess – Robert’s Rebellion - had begun by Rickard arranging marriage alliances in the South and as a result having his _wild_ children gallivant around the Riverlands. True that Roose himself had sent his heir to foster in the Vale – but it was to verify if the Starks knew what they were doing, to check if maybe that they knew something the Bolton’s did not. But they did not - Domeric returned soft, naive and trusting.

 Roose knew that he had his job cut for him – he had wedding arrangements to go over with Lord Walder _and_ Lord Tywin. He needed to release the Kingslayer. He also needed to put a child in the belly of the bride, Arya Stark, which the Lannisters were to provide. He needed an heir to wear the Skull Crown of the Red Kings. Or, better, the Crown of Winter itself.

 Among less weighty matters Roose needed a new Castellan for the Dreadfort - the previous one had chosen to be “the shield of the Realms of Men” over the block and was at the Wall. Lucky for him – had he still been at the Dreadfort Roose would had flayed him for surrendering the Castle to the Stark Bastard. Thinking of it – the boy’s diligence in chopping heads off – and draping guts over boughs on occasion - pointed to the half Stark having potential for learning more refined manners of dealing death. Finally a Stark after his own mind! Seeing how bland Eddard’s trueborns were Jon must had got his finer qualities from that unknown mother of his ... What a pity that Roose would have to kill the freshly minted Stark anyway. But all that in good time—let the leeches draw the humours out first ...

  

_On the Kingsroad, somewhere in the bogs of the Neck_

 Jon was in his tent and thus out of sight. He thus allowed himself to indulge in his secret sin. He warged into Ghost and nipped at Summer’s ear, drawing out of the beast’s mind immediately afterwards. He smiled at the sounds of the scuffle outside. He then – with greater effort than previously, as he did not have the same bond with Summer – entered the other direwolf’s mind and reciprocated the ear nipping. With same aftershocks. However, his next attempt at entering Ghost’s mind - this time to chew at Summer's tail - was rebuffed and the direwolf’s thoughts could be translated into human speech as – “sod off, stupid!”

 He mentally promised the animals that he will not indulge in any horseplay and entertained himself with watching the camp through the eyes of one or the other. The effort quickly exhausted him, however, and he fell into a dreamless sleep. Rank had its privileges and he did not stand watch and thus slept until morning.

 Peeing at a tree in the morning chill he admired the vapour rising from the hot stream. He smiled at the sight of the two direwolves sleeping, curled up next to one another. His grin turned into a grimace when he reminded himself that there were only two. Jon sighed ...

  _Flashback!_

 After returning from Deepwood Motte Jon had tried to “tame” Shaggydog. Yet to no avail. Rickon’s death had affected the beast too strongly. The black furred direwolf tolerated the presence of children, was cold towards women, and hostile towards men. Very hostile even when the men were armed. The only exemption to this aggression was Jon himself. He had tried to enter Shaggydog’s mind to "calm him" but had been rejected.

 Facing a choice of having a very unhappy and constantly howling direwolf in the kennels or having him attack the guards when let out, Jon had released the animal into the Woolfswood. He had sent very strong thoughts of “do not attack people” but that had not been enough – either his warging powers were insufficient to get the idea across or simply Shaggy was too far gone. The black direwofl mauled a hunting party and Winterfell now had a widow and three semi-orphans to support. After that attack Jon had taken the other two wolves and sought out the rogue. They ran him down and Jon had extended the Old Way to Shaggy – he beheaded him before a weirwood. He felt acceptance at this act from the remaining brothers but he still felt remorse. It was like losing one more family member. And drove home the message that a boil was best lanced before it festered, a lesson he liberally applied when judging Bolton men at the Dreadfort.

  

_Dragonstone_

 “Edric has the blood of kings. Let me bed him. For the power to make a Shadow Assassin to use on Tywin. He is the only one that counts. And then burn the boy - he is young and weak and the making of R'hllor's Blade will bring him close to death anyway. Sacrificing him will bring R'hllor's Blessing for the battles that will follow” – the priestess of the Red God pleaded.

 Stannis was tempted by the woman's offer. The making of two Shadow Assasins had drained him greatly and unmanned him, making him useless in this regard. He chided himself for throwing away resources for brilliant tactical victories which did not do much to further his strategic ends. Using the Shadow Assassin against Ser Cortnay Penrose had been an absolute waste. In hindsight, that is. It had seemed a good idea at that time – gaining Storm's End and thus securing the Stormlands for his cause. And Melisandre was absolutely correct– Tywin was the only adversary who mattered. With him gone the Lannisters controlling HIS throne would not have two grey cells to rub together. Only Tyrion had something resembling a brain amongst that lot. But Stannis was certain that the pretty, stupid and vicious Lannisters would not listen to the Imp. Also Edric – no matter how disgusting the manner of his conception, was kin. He would not kill the boy. Even if his - the one rightful King's - situation resembled that of a stag surrounded by a pride of lions. Or better - that of a rat cornered by rabid cats. He was not _that_ desperate. Yet.

 “No. Leech him only”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter. I have problems with the Red Wedding.


End file.
